


I Realize I'm the One in Your Bedroom but This Is Genuinely the Last Place I Expected to See You

by ckret2



Series: RadioSnake Discord - Spicy Showdown Week [6]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Ex Sex, Humiliation, Love/Hate, M/M, Masturbation, Masturbation Interruptus, Mutually Unrequited, One-Sided Attraction, One-sided hate sex, Post-Break Up, Self-Flagellation, Unrequited Lust, Verbal Humiliation, Voyeurism, Watching, happy-ish ending?, not 'sex' exactly it's just one dude jerking off and the other watching but close enough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:47:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24265345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ckret2/pseuds/ckret2
Summary: Less than an hour ago, Alastor and Sir Pentious crossed paths and Alastor blew up Sir Pentious's car.Alastor decides to cope with running into his incredible ex by breaking into one of Sir Pentious's old abandoned safe houses to jerk out his guilt.Sir Pentious decides to cope with running into his horrible ex by re-using one of his old abandoned safe houses to sleep off his irritation.It's hard to say who's more surprised to see whom.
Relationships: Alastor/Sir Pentious (Hazbin Hotel)
Series: RadioSnake Discord - Spicy Showdown Week [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1732291
Comments: 5
Kudos: 84





	I Realize I'm the One in Your Bedroom but This Is Genuinely the Last Place I Expected to See You

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I promise I'm done humiliating the hell out of Alastor for a while.
> 
> So a couple weeks ago the RadioSnake discord I’m in ran a week-long event called Spicy Showdown and I fell behind because I kept writing fics a lot longer than I was meaning to. Day 6’s prompt was “Caught in the Act”. Next prompt’s the last one!!
> 
> If anything in this seems wonky, it's because I wrote a 5500 word fanfic in a single nine hour writing session. Gimme a bit to recover my sanity and proof this.

Sir Pentious had safe houses scattered all over Hell. A dozen or so just in Pentagram City alone, even more outside of that: narrow unobtrusive townhouses, subterranean bunkers accessible only by hidden elevators, discreet flats over small shops, cabins in the wood. Places he could retreat to and regroup whenever he suffered a loss or was trying to avoid someone.

When Alastor and Sir Pentious broke up, Alastor knew where about four-fifths of Sir Pentious's safe houses were.

And so Sir Pentious had declared that four-fifths of his safe houses were compromised, moved out anything important—documents, equipment, weapons—and abandoned everything else to collect dust and mildew.

In the years since their breakup, many of the former safe houses had been identified as abandoned property and snatched up by squatters, organized criminals, or garden-variety realtors. But some still stood empty.

Which, in Alastor's opinion, made them fantastic places to break into whenever he needed somewhere to mope around and hate himself for being one hundred percent to blame for losing the greatest man in Hell.

###

Alastor hit the door with a wave of magic so hard it was blasted off of all but one of its hinges. Usually he tried to leave these abandoned safe houses in better order, but today he couldn't be bothered. He set the door back upright, dragged an entryway table under the doorknob to keep it in place, and trudged upstairs, undoing his tie and unbuttoning his coat and shirt as he went.

Less than an hour ago, Alastor had run into Sir Pentious.

Alastor had been meandering around downtown just after nightfall looking for dinner when he'd heard a yell from across the street, "Hey!"

Sir Pentious had been in a beautiful vintage car parked across the street, seated in the rolled-down back window, holding some sort of ridiculous futuristic gun that was so heavy he had to rest it on the roof of the car. He'd snarled at Alastor, "We really do run into each other in the _oddest_ places, _don't_ we!" as the absurd gun started glowing and humming.

Alastor had not wanted to fight Sir Pentious. Fighting Sir Pentious was the last thing he wanted to do. Because when they fought, Alastor won, and Sir Pentious crawled away with even more broken bones and machines, and Alastor had to live with the knowledge that yet again he'd hurt Sir Pentious more than he'd ever wanted or intended, and Sir Pentious had another reason to loathe Alastor and pick a fight the next time they crossed paths.

And so, in the few seconds he had until Sir Pentious's gun finished powering up, Alastor had needed to figure out a way to avoid getting into a full-blown building-toppling street brawl.

Operating half on panic and half on instinct, he'd decided the best way to do that was to end the fight before it started.

He had blown up the engine of Sir Pentious's car.

He hated himself a little bit for that. It had been such a beautiful car.

Alastor slammed the bedroom door shut. He didn't bother trying the lights; the power would no doubt be out, and besides that a couple of street lamps cast stark blue-white light into the room. He tossed his shirt, coat, and tie on daybed facing the bed—Sir Pentious had one in every one of his safe house bedrooms, he liked to read on chaise longues such as this; and just like the ones in all of Sir Pentious's other abandoned safe houses, the brocade upholstery was crumbling to shreds from being abandoned.

He pulled off his shoes, socks, and garters to drop by the door, and added his pants and underwear to the pile on the daybed. He considered removing his undershirt—but, no, for years now his undershirt had been a ratty old hole-filled t-shirt for some band that Sir Pentious had contributed keyboards to. It made Alastor think of him. All Alastor wanted near him were things that made him think of him.

He pulled out his cane, set it on the floor, and pressed it down until the main rod started shrinking as if magically contracting.

"Oh," his microphone said, glancing up at him sardonically, "So it's one of _those_ days, is it?"

"It's one of those days," Alastor agreed wearily.

He wasn't able to let go of what he'd felt the moment Sir Pentious had appeared—that burst of adrenaline to his system, the way suddenly all the shadows were darker and the lights were brighter and every shard of glass sparkled, the way every time he inhaled white noise filled him and every time he exhaled he felt like he was on the verge of bursting into a dozen different songs. He didn't know if the sudden rush was shock or the fight-or-flight instinct or what; but as he'd left the scene of the crime and tried futilely to get the encounter out of his head, it had resolved into arousal.

"Well, bring it on," the microphone said.

Alastor didn't stop pressing until the rod was only a couple inches long, and when he picked it up a needle protruded from the base like an oversized wasp's stinger. A quick rift in space dropped a homemade phonograph record into Alastor's hand; he set it spinning next to the bed on the tip of one finger, lowered his hand so that it remained spinning in midair, and set his cane on top with the needle settling into the groove of the record. Through the microphone came the sound of organ music.

One of _those_ days, indeed; one of the days where he'd gotten a brief glimpse of Sir Pentious, and now was going to drive himself insane if he couldn't see him again. One of those days where he wasn't going to get any peace unless he crawled into the nearest abandoned safe house, surrounded himself by as many reminders of Sir Pentious as possible, and tortured his cock until he came so hard he forgot Sir Pentious hated him.

Alastor rummaged through Sir Pentious's abandoned wardrobe, pulled out familiar-looking clothes to see whether they'd been devoured by moths or rot, and tossed the passable ones onto the bed.

###

Less than an hour ago, Sir Pentious had run into Alastor.

It had been an unmitigated disaster. Memo to self: next time— _really_ , this time—shoot first, taunt later. He could just as easily address mocking gibes while standing over Alastor's crumpled, bloody form as he could while staring through the sight of a powering-up laser at Alastor's face, couldn't he, and that way Alastor wouldn't have a chance to get the jump on him. Anyway Alastor never showed any dread at the sight of a giant gun pointed at him, so there wasn't any satisfaction from the threat display.

He'd lost his car, his chauffeur had been hard boiled, he was sore and bruised, he'd crushed his phone when he landed, and none of his currently active safe houses were within slithering distance.

But one of his _abandoned_ safe houses was. And last he'd checked, nobody had claimed and repurposed that one yet.

He really wasn't in the mood to endure the inevitable mockery that would come from begging to borrow some stranger's phone so he could call the eggs for a pickup. He bought a cheap sleeping bags at a gas station that he could spread out on the floor and resigned himself to camping out in the decrepit old place, calling the Egg Bois in the morning, and cursing his ex's name the whole time.

He wasn't terribly surprised when he found that the deadbolt and a couple of hinges had been broken—squatters, most likely. Or maybe burglars. Well, as long as they weren't here _tonight_ , he didn't care.

He was more surprised when he found that the broken door had been held shut from the inside with a table. Maybe somebody _was_ here tonight. Well, if they _were_ —he might have lost his big laser, but he still had a pistol stowed under his jacket. It wouldn't keep anybody down, but it would hurt enough to deter anybody from sticking around. They could have the damn place back tomorrow night—

Did he hear _music_ upstairs?

He cautiously drew his pistol and slithered slowly upstairs.

And that was how Sir Pentious caught Alastor—who had literally _just_ kicked his ass—in Sir Pentious's safe house, in Sir Pentious's bedroom, on Sir Pentious's bed, wearing Sir Pentious's old coat, using a ratty old t-shirt from a band Sir Pentious had played keyboards for on an album in the nineties as an undershirt, listening to a recording Sir Pentious had posted online of himself playing the organ a couple of years ago, holding one of Sir Pentious's old shirts to his face like he was trying to knock himself out with a chloroform rag, and wearing Sir Pentious's glove as he jerked off.

Sir Pentious's hood flared out in shock.

The phonograph record stopped spinning with a screech.

Alastor stared at Sir Pentious. Sir Pentious stared at Alastor.

Alastor cover his groin with the yellow shirt so quickly he smacked himself in the process. He flinched, brows knit and smile tense with pain. "Hi," he said, voice tight. "I thought you. Uh. Abandoned this place."

Sir Pentious opened his mouth, paused, and pointed at Alastor. "I. Need a moment." He gestured vaguely. "To process this."

Alastor slowly pulled his hand out from underneath the shirt and casually laced his hands together. "That's perfectly understandable," he said, like a sympathetic doctor trying to comfort a patient who'd just found out they'd need an intense surgery, and not like a man who had just been caught fapping in his ex's bed.

Sir Pentious took three times to re-holster his pistol and then stared in bewilderment at the unbelievable scene in front of him—in the middle of it all, his _ex_ , his _loathsome_ ex, his ex who on most days didn't so much as deign to admit he _knew_ Sir Pentious—and who was currently slowly pulling his knees together and raising his shoulders as if he was actually capable of feeling sheepish.

It was too good to be true.

###

Sir Pentious had been staring in stunned silence at Alastor for so long (his gaze burning every inch of Alastor's exposed skin, face and neck and collar bones and legs all the way up to where the very top of his thighs were hidden beneath the stolen yellow shirt) that Alastor was beginning to debate the merits of jumping out the bedroom window and taking off down the street below.

And then Sir Pentious said, expectantly, " _Well?_ "

Alastor blinked. He glanced around the room, as if that would give him any hint what it was, exactly, Sir Pentious was expecting. Probably for him to leave, right? That was the only thing that made sense. But something about that theory didn't fit right. Finally, Alastor repeated, "'Well'?"

"Well, you weren't planning to stop in the middle, were you?" Sir Pentious planted one hand on a cocked hip and gestured regally down at his whole glorious length like a game show hostess presenting the fabulous grand prize. "Isn't _this_ what you wanted?"

Alastor's throat went dry. It had been so many years since he'd had an opportunity to just _look_ at Sir Pentious, much less admire him. His gaze took in every inch of Sir Pentious's body, from the finely tailored (if somewhat singed) suit jacket around his torso, to the way his narrow waist curved into his wide hips, to the sinuous tapering length of his onyx-and-gold tail—and then back up to his face, his piercing gaze, and his haughty smirk.

"Well here I am," Sir Pentious said. He gestured at Alastor permissively. "So get on with it."

Alastor's jaw dropped, flummoxed. No. Surely not. Sir Pentious detested Alastor. Quite viciously and publicly. Under no circumstances could he _possibly_ actually _want_ to see Alastor pleasuring himself, in Sir Pentious's room, to the sight of Sir Pentious himself.

Ever second Alastor gaped at him in disbelief, dead air hissing out of his mouth, Sir Pentious's smirk grew wider and crueler.

Things like this didn't happen. This was a setup for a cheap porn plot. (Probably; he didn't actually know what plots in pornos were like.) It was—it was bad acting, was what it was. A performance.

His teeth clicked as his regular smile snapped back into place, immediately back in form as a proper radio host. "Why, yes! Of course!" He sat up straight, head high. He could handle performances. He sang, he danced, he read the news, he'd been in theater—he was a consummate entertainer. An entertainer didn't ask why his audience was in the house, he just gave them what they wanted to see. "I'd be absolutely _thrilled_ to." Consummate entertainer that he was—sure, fine, he could be a stripper for one night and put off processing this until after he could safely break character. He nodded toward Sir Pentious, "If my delightful audience tonight would be so kind as to let me know how—uhh—how _exactly_ you'd like to see me perform... ?"

His mind spun through what limited possibilities he was aware of; his knowledge of the sexual performing arts began and ended with dances (varieties: pole; lap), with no idea how to do any of them. Would his audience request something more hands on than that? As payment for breaking and entering? Now that _definitely_ sounded like a porn plot, but okay, it shouldn't be too hard an improv role—

"Oh no," Sir Pentious said, sneering. "None of that. You are _not_ performing for me. It's quite obvious to me that you're doing this entirely for _yourssself_." His tail curled in a semicircle over the floor as he backed up to settle himself on the daybed. " _Go on_ , then." Sir Pentious leaned on one arm against the daybed's armrest, deliberately dragged his tail up onto the chair, and reclined nonchalantly. "Take care of your personal business. If it helps, you can pretend I'm not here at all."

Alastor's hastily-constructed mask cracked. "What?"

Sir Pentious wheezed a malicious laugh. "Do you think I can't tell when you start acting? I'm not in the mood to watch a character in a one-man show, Alastor."

Alastor sank back, slouching against the musty pillows he'd propped up at the head of the bed. Right, of course. Years ago, Alastor had known Sir Pentious very well. That went _both_ ways; Sir Pentious had known Alastor just as well.

And he clearly wasn't in the mood to let Alastor take the easy way out by disassociating himself from his actions. He didn't get to tell himself he was following the director's instructions, he didn't get to tell himself he was performing for an audience's consumption. Sir Pentious didn't want to watch Alastor jerk off. He wanted to watch Alastor physically confess his own secret desires.

So Alastor sat in the middle of a rapidly-growing puddle of sweat, stolen shirt covering a boner that wasn't sure whether it wanted to wilt or suck even more blood out of his brain, and stared at Sir Pentious in absolute paralyzing terror.

And Sir Pentious waited, wearing a polite smile as fixed and frightening as any Alastor himself had ever donned, his many eyes watching with sadistic over-attentiveness.

Jumping out the window was starting to sound appealing again.

After a moment, Sir Pentious shrugged languidly, glancing away—at least with a couple of eyes. "If you're not going to _do_ anything, then perhaps you'd like to explain yourself instead?"

This was the worst game of Truth or Dare Alastor had ever played.

"Why is it," Sir Pentious asked, "that you decided to _blow up my stuff_ , and then sneak onto _my_ property and use _my_ things while you halfheartedly fondle yourself?"

Alastor winced.

His microphone sympathetically muttered, "Oof."

"Actually, a-about that." His voice was so strangled with electronic interference it almost sounded robotic. "I would like to apologize for the whole... blowing-up-your-car thing—I'm actually a fan of your cars, as it happens, fine vehicles—but it, uhhh... seemed like the fastest way to uh, end the little..." Alastor grimaced, "confrontation that we were having, without having to... actually... fight."

Sir Pentious's brows and hood raised in disbelief. "That was you trying to _avoid_ a fight."

"Avoiding fights isn't one of my fortes," Alastor said weakly.

"No. No it's not."

Alastor winced. Okay, that was fair, he deserved that.

Sir Pentious smoothed his hood down. "So, I'm good enough for you to... _creepily_ obsess over while you masturbate—" (Alastor fought the urge to squirm in his seat) "—but not good enough for you to fight properly, is that it?"

"No, no, that's not it!" Alastor waved his hands emphatically, and then froze when he realized this meant he now had to explain what it _was_. "I would actuallyyy ratherrr... nnnot fight you. At all. In... any context." 

Sir Pentious's gaze was a vicious thing. Like an x-ray cutting through all his stolen clothes and burning his exposed skin off one thin layer at a time, starting with his guilty face and naked thighs. Coldly, Sir Pentious asked, "And what, pray tell, _would_ you like to do with me."

Alastor nearly choked on his own tongue. Oh, _sadist_. Alastor hoped Sir Pentious was enjoying himself, because _he_ wasn't.

The longer Alastor spent grasping for an answer, the higher Sir Pentious's brows raised; until, finally, Alastor managed to croak out, "Maybe take you to a museum?

Sir Pentious's hood fluttered, then settled down. "A museum."

"Yes, I saw this, uh, this—flyer advertising a traveling art exhibit the other day—" Alastor tried to get back into proper radio host form—shoot for informative and interesting—talking too fast to allow room for interjection, "—history of snake motifs in art! Yes, it uh—compares works from artists obviously drawing inspiration from living world cultures—so uh, snakes in symbolically antagonistic roles, or, or medicinal roles, I don't know what else, it was a short flyer—versus snakes as portrayed in art drawing from Hellish culture, where they're more likely to be portrayed in a protagonistic—is that a word?—well, you know, art centered around—centered on them, and I thought about _you_ for... for, you know... obvious reasons..."

There was a visible shift in Sir Pentious's expression as he registered that this wasn't something Alastor had pulled out of his ass, but something he had actually, genuinely, seriously fantasized about. Alastor could _see_ on Sir Pentious's face as he put together that Alastor had been dragged to this safe house by more than just raw lust and a poor choice of emotional outlets.

Flatly, Sir Pentious asked, "Did you plan on wearing my old clothes to the museum, too."

Alastor made a noise that sounded like a dying rooster choking on a bicycle horn.

And almost simultaneously realized that at some point in the last couple of minutes, the terror of knowing that Sir Pentious was staring at his half-naked body had lost out to the thrill of knowing that Sir Pentious was staring at his half-naked body, and he was rock hard again. His vision flicked down to his groin—yes, he had a very obvious tent under Sir Pentious's stolen yellow shirt—and then quickly looked up again. 

Just in time to see Sir Pentious's gaze flick down toward Alastor's groin as well.

Fear jolted through Alastor's veins. "Orrr not the museum! Maybe—going for a drive!"

The suggestion successfully dragged Sir Pentious's gaze away from Alastor's groin and back to his face; at which point he realized he actually would much rather Sir Pentious be looking at his groin. Craved it, even. It had been so many _years_ since Sir Pentious had even come close to looking at Alastor that way—when they'd been together Alastor had never _wanted_ Sir Pentious to see him this way, a thing of flesh rather than a thing of intellect and magic, but oh, god, as long as Sir Pentious saw him at all—

Before Sir Pentious could snap something about the car Alastor had just destroyed, he blurted out, "There's more cars in the world, it doesn't have to be—!" Nope, he wasn't going to get anywhere with that, switch stations. "Skydiving? Checkers. I know you prefer the whole _image_ of chess, but it's easier to have a conversation during checkers. Going to a jazz club! Cooking together. Kidnap and beat up a mutual enemy. Or a—doesn't have to be a mutual enemy, could just be one of yours, you know me, I'm game for beating up almost anyone, uh... Browse an antique shop. Karaoke."

At some point in the middle of listing potential date nights—Alastor wasn't even sure when—his terror-paralyzed hand had gotten working again. Almost as if in a trance, he'd pulled the stolen shirt aside and started jerking himself off again.

Not a single one of Sir Pentious's eyes was focused on Alastor's face.

It was like being naked on a stage in front of an open-air amphitheater with a hundred spotlights pointed directly between his legs. It was the most excruciatingly shameful experience of his existence, and each and every time he pumped his fist around his cock he could feel a fresh drop of shame plop heavily into the pool building in his stomach.

He didn't think he could stop himself if he tried.

Not as long as he had Sir Pentious transfixed. Not as long as being exposed in front of him like this felt like confessing every regret he'd been trying to suppress for years. Not as long as Sir Pentious's disgusted glare felt like the rightful punishment he'd had coming to him since he'd shoved Sir Pentious away.

"And I suppose," Sir Pentious said dryly, nodding toward Alastor's cock, " _that_ is on the list of things you'd like to do with me?"

A surge of mingled humiliation and arousal hit Alastor so hard he nearly jerked his hips off the mattress. Voice strained, he said, "W-Well—! It's—much _lower_ on my list of priorities, but—!" Which was true, but he probably didn't have a chance of convincing Sir Pentious of that. He didn't care."

"Hm. Well." Sir Pentious left the topic behind unnervingly quickly and said, his voice a perfect impression of feigned disinterest, "Anyway, so I typically used to keep some handkerchiefs in my bedside table, if you'd like to use that instead of making a mess all over _my_ sheets." (The sheer _judgment_ when Sir Pentious said "my." Alastor had to curl a fist in the bedsheets.) "Granted, the sheets _have_ been there for decades—and I don't know how many times you've done this before without bothering to change the bedding, but..." He shrugged.

Alastor actually didn't know either. He'd done this more often than he could count, in more safe houses than he cared to remember, stumbling in long enough to sate his urges and then slinking away from the scene of the crime as soon as he could get his clothes back on; how many times in _this_ safe house, in _this_ bed?

His hips rocked involuntarily into his hand.

Even if Alastor didn't want Sir Pentious to see him make a complete mess of himself out of sheer uncontrolled longing—and at this point, he was fairly certain he _did_ want that—he didn't think he physically _could_ reach over to the bedside table to get a hankie. Aside from his hands and his newly-independent hips, the rest of him was still paralyzed with self-horror. He could feel the strain from his tense muscles down the backs of both thighs and stretching up his back to settle in his rigid neck and shoulders. "Uh. No, thank you, I'm fine."

"Suit yourself." Sir Pentious shrugged again. "Probably for the best. I _did_ abandon this place in a hurry, after all. For all I can remember, there's a good chance I never had an opportunity to do the laundry after the last time using the handkerchiefs to, ah, 'polish the swords'—"

Alastor scrambled so hard for the bedside table that he knocked his still-floating pseudo-phonograph and record out of the air, fell off the bed, and landed on his side with one leg still tangled up in the bed sheets. He stared up at Sir Pentious, trying to make sense of the new angle the world had suddenly been rotated to.

Sir Pentious laughed so hard he almost slid off of the daybed. A thick loop of his tail drooped over the edge of the seat and nearly to the floor, along with one arm, the other hand pressed to his chest as he gasped for breath between shrill, increasingly wheezy cackles. Even his hat, trembling on top of Sir Pentious's shaking head, looked like it was laughing along.

"I can't _believe_ it!" Sir Pentious focused on Alastor with watery-eyed glee, a fiendish smile splitting his face. "After everything you put me through! Everything of mine you've destroyed! I could have had you in the palm of my hand this _whole time_ and I only didn't think to ask! I could have had you like this— _This—!_ " He dissolved into near-hysterical laughter again.

Every word out of Sir Pentious's mouth felt like a hand wrapped around his cock and twisting. He scrambled again for the bedside table, pulling open the top drawer and reaching up to frantically rummage around inside it without looking. 

"And you're _still—?!_ " Sir Pentious laughed again; then abruptly rolled over, claws digging into the edge of the daybed as he leaned over the edge toward Alastor. "All these years I dreaded you, but look at you now—completely _powerless_ in front of front of me! You're _pathetic!_ Helpless! I-I honestly can't believe my _eyes—!_ "

" _Yes!_ " Alastor blurted out raggedly, and Sir Pentious immediately fell silent. "Yes, for _you_ I—!" He felt himself tipping over the edge without even being touched. He finally managed to close a hand around something silky, just a moment too late to catch the first two spurts of semen. He pumped himself furiously with the silky handkerchief for his last few seconds, reveling in the faintest possibility that the years-old ghost of Sir Pentious's touch was transferring to his skin, hips thrusting into the air, smile stretched so wide it hurt his face, trying to blearily focus on Sir Pentious. "I— _only_ for you—I'd..."

He sagged to the ground, manic energy drained from his limbs, eyelids drooping shut, completely exhausted. Warm all over and more satisfied than he'd been in years.

He let out a shaky sigh of relief.

And then froze. Oh, no. That was not how this should have gone. He should not have done any of that.

Sir Pentious clearly had an objective here. An objective that Alastor not only wholeheartedly understood, but also fully supported and had meant to help him achieve. Sir Pentious's objective was to torture Alastor.

Alastor got it. Alastor deserved it. They'd had the mother of all messy breakups, _entirely_ Alastor's fault, and he had done nothing at all to make up for it since then. Sir Pentious was _more_ than justified in exploiting this newfound weakness to its full extent to wring as much suffering out of Alastor as possible.

Except Alastor had stopped suffering there for a minute, hadn't he.

He had enjoyed himself quite a lot.

It wasn't just that he'd orgasmed—that was inevitable, wasn't it, if you rubbed yourself long enough—but that he'd been into it. And there was no way Sir Pentious could have missed that.

He opened his eyes, jerked his still-tangled leg out of the bedsheets, and quickly sat up. His ejaculation had left a messy streak halfway across the floor toward the daybed, pointing directly toward the side where the top half of his body was reclining and Sir Pentious was gazing down at Alastor, smirking like the smuggest snake Hell had ever seen.

Alastor's stomach flipped.

" _There_ you go." Voice condescendingly syrupy sweet, Sir Pentious asked, "Did we enjoy ourselves?"

Alastor bit his lip hard as heat flooded to his cheeks. He almost automatically tried to get his mask back on—put on a character just as artificially peppy to match Sir Pentious's—but Sir Pentious didn't want to see that. He wanted to see exactly how conflicted and captivated Alastor was. After a moment to breathe in deeply, cringing at his own answer as he gave it, he managed to say, "Yes."

Sir Pentious's tail shifted back and forth on the daybed as he pulled himself up to lean forward, looming over Alastor. He hissed, "Oh, how abssolutely deliciousss."

Alastor swore for a couple of seconds he went blind from euphoria. It was better than the orgasm.

Sir Pentious's scales shifted softly again as he sank back onto the daybed. "Well. Now that you've got all that nonsense out of your system..." He smiled sweetly at Alastor. "Get the hell off of my property."

Alastor blinked. "Oh," he said. He got to his hooves, automatically tried to tug his undershirt down to cover himself, found it too short, and grabbed the yellow shirt off the bed again. "Yes. Right. Should have seen that coming."

"Should have," Sir Pentious agreed. "I'm _sure_ you weren't expecting to stick around and cuddle with the villain whose... _how many_ of my airships have you destroyed, exactly?"

"I'll just get dressed," Alastor said. "And... uh..."

He looked around, spotted his socks and shoes by the door, kept looking, and focused on the daybed. Right. "You're sitting on my clothes."

"Am I?" Sir Pentious asked.

Alastor glanced at the tail of his coat, hanging off the edge of the seat beneath Sir Pentious's coils. "Yes."

"Hm. I couldn't tell." Sir Pentious glanced at the back of his seat to pluck off a bit of old, tattered brocade upholstery. "They're so ragged, they blended right in." He made absolutely no move to get off of Alastor's clothes.

They stared at each other for a moment.

"Right," Sir Pentious said. "Get going."

"Right! Okay. Um." Alastor looked around for another pair of pants he could borrow, even circling around Sir Pentious's chair to check the wardrobe. Alastor could feel Sir Pentious's gaze burning into the back of his neck.

There were, of course, no pants. Nor anything else to be worn from the waist down.

"Time's up," Sir Pentious said. "I really suggest you get going."

Alastor turned back around. "But—"

Oh, Sir Pentious had a gun out. "Ten," he said. "Nine."

Alastor bolted for the door in nothing but a hole-filled old band t-shirt and a coat he'd pulled on in a fit of undirected lust, with a shirt in one hand and a very dirty handkerchief in the other. He barely managed to grab his shoes on the way out.

He didn't even attempt to cover himself up until he was safely outside on the sidewalk, at which point he dropped everything but the shirt and frantically scrambled to tie it around his waist like an unusually silky yellow kilt. The coat was an old-fashioned yellow thing that almost went down to his knees, it could cover his butt. He attempted to button up the coat, determined that Sir Pentious was _slightly_ more slender than him, and gave up. He'd just have to leave with his undershirt out where the whole world could see. Nobody cared about walking around in nothing but a t-shirt these days, it'd be fine.

He was trying to pull his shoes back onto his bare hooves when a late night passerby slowed down to stare curiously at him.

"What?" he snapped. "Like you've never seen someone get kicked out of somebody else's house half-naked in the middle of the night before. This is Hell. Grow up and mind your own business." He summoned his cane back to his side—back at its proper length—and used it to gesture down the street. "Keep walking!"

The passerby apparently identified Alastor with his cane, and quickly hurried away.

Well, there was _one_ person who'd already seen Alastor stranded outside underdressed in someone else's clothing. He wondered how many others he'd run into before he reached someone who could help him get a new set of clothes. He wondered if any of them would recognize _whose_ clothes he was in.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd smiled this easily. That was an absolutely horrible experience, and he wanted to walk right back in and do it all over again. He was kind of lightheaded.

Alastor heard a window slide open and looked up.

"But that idea of going for a drive sounds lovely," Sir Pentious called down, far louder than he needed to be for Alastor to hear. "I rather like the idea of seeing you sprawled out across my front bench with half your clothes off."

Alastor wondered if anyone was within earshot.

Sir Pentious rolled his eyes up thoughtfully, then added, "Or maybe seeing _you_ locked in the car while _I_ blow it up for a change."

Alastor spread his arms wide. "Whatever you want! For you, my schedule's _completely_ open!"

A wicked smile split Sir Pentious's face. "I'll contact you in a few days, we'll set something up." He slid the window shut.

That, Alastor was sure, was going to end very poorly for him.

He couldn't wait.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a vaguely AU-ish sequel off of [Cold Day In Hell](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21776062), sorta inspired by CDIH's other vaguely AU-ish sequel [Public Displays of Affection](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23832007). After I wrote PDA I got asked about the possibility of working from there to a happy ending for Alastor and Sir Pentious and my reply was "only if Sir Pentious decides that Alastor being embarrassingly obsessed with him years after they broke up is a turn on." And then the "caught in the act" prompt came up and I went for it.
> 
> If you wanna know my headcanon for why they're exes in the first place and it's definitely all Alastor's fault, I recommend reading CDIH! If you wanna see more of Alastor being humiliated, except even worse, and with no dubiously happy ending, I recommend reading either PDA or [Eggs Benedicked](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24244234)! Just mind the tags.
> 
> Fic post available on [tumblr](https://ckret2.tumblr.com/post/618515912155381760/i-realize-im-the-one-in-your-bedroom-but-this-is). Comments/reblogs there are very welcome (as are comments here)!


End file.
